


Pulled on the Harp Strings

by DaDreadedJester



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Marvel Comics - Freeform, Norse Bro Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:37:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaDreadedJester/pseuds/DaDreadedJester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki has been isolating himself from the family and Thor is asked to speak with him. Loki could just be behaving like his normal, anti-social self... but more troubling matters seem to be plaguing him. What are they? (Takes place during the events of 'Thor'.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sound of Music

Thor walked purposefully - well, normally for him - down the eerie halls, which he called home. The tentative, amber-flamed candles lit his way politely as if they knew exactly where is was headed.

As he approached his destination, he came into range of a rather peculiar yet pleasant sound. The moderate tempo and delicate melody seemed to dance upon the surface of the shining, sapphire tiles.

It was music.

Thor had no doubts of whom its maker was. At the thought he grew slightly apprehensive as he was drawing nearer and nearer to the ornate, wooden door.

The door to Loki's room.

The reverberation of his echoing footsteps died gradually as he quietened his walk and slowed his pace. As daintily as his physique would allow him, he paused to appreciate the purity of the notes; they fluttered as if melodic butterflies.

Thor inhaled, exhaled, wrapped his palm around the golden handle and opened the door.  
Loki did not even acknowledge his brother. He remained committed to his instrument with his entirety; his skeletal fingers proving meticulously agile as they plucked the silken strings, caressing them lovingly as he customised the piece with the occasional glissando.

That harp was his pride and joy.

There were times Loki would pass hours upon hours embracing the curves of grandiose, golden swirls; tied to the tune with such devotion, until his fingers bled.

This was one of those times.

Thor hadn't even seen him for three consecutive days, now. Loki had not eaten, bathed or even spoken, as far as he knew. Still, that form of behaviour was typical of his little brother. When fond of something, Loki would utterly saturate himself with it; he would live and breathe his passions, whether that was books, magic or music. 'Almost obsessive', Thor would ponder with concern.

The God of Thunder stepped forward cautiously and then dared to converse with the porcelain prince:

"Loki, father insists you dine with us."

Silence.

"Loki, please; he is worried about you."

The younger God omitted an ironic snort; it was soft but still embroidered with bitter malice. He gave a sarcastic smirk, attention still fixated on the antique harp.

"Loki-"

"I'm not hungry."

Loki's voice was cool and calm; however the undertones of ominous acidity in his words convinced Thor that it was foolish - and potentially hazardous - to persist any further.

Instead, Thor began to circle the sculptural scene of the prince and the harp, observing his brother with curiosity.

Loki appeared in a trance of unadulterated serenity. His piercing eyes swam with suppressed emotion, gazing solemnly into the abyss. All the while, his slim, spindly fingers continued to attend to his precious tune as if the art of making music was merely subconscious to him. Thor sighed; why was the mind of his little brother always somewhere else?  
Thor decided he would attempt to make conversation:

“‘Tis rather sombre, is it not?" He critiqued of the piece, gesturing towards the harp.  
Loki sighed wearily. "You forget that music is more than a mere soundtrack of which to consume alcoholic beverages, brother." Loki tried to conceal a smirk at his own cunning jibe, still refusing to submit to eye contact.

Thor clenched his fist slightly, "I'm just saying you could put a bit of life into it-"

"No..." Loki sighed wistfully as he began to recite his muse, "...no, brother. Music has the ability to articulate such content of the soul that even we - as Gods - cannot verbalise." He gave a romantic sigh, gazing dreamily at the harp.  
Thor rolled his eyes with a slight smirk; Loki liked to think of himself as a philosopher. However the smirk turned into a warm smile of sincerity as he saw a feeling of content dominate his brother's pale countenance. Loki smiled whimsically.

A rare event, indeed.

The raven-haired God paused momentarily and an eerie silence occupied the room. Loki then closed his eyes as he immersed himself in a rather tender but tragic concerto.

"Whose piece be this?" Asked Thor softly, not wanting to disturb his brother too severely.

"An original composition."

Thor widened his eyes, eyeing Loki, as if rather impressed. Sombre or not, the piece was beautiful.

"You play exceptionally, brother." Thor reached out to lay a warm hand upon Loki's skeletal shoulder as a form of appraisal.

"Don't patronise me." He muttered darkly. Thor pulled his hand away in silence. He should have known any attempt to compliment Loki was futile. Then again, sincerity had never been his brother's expertise... in any context.

"That was not my intention." Thor replied as he turned to leave, admitting defeat.

"Thor?"

Loki's voice echoed in the sudden silence. The music had ceased. The call to him seemed sad and questioning, lined with the innocence of a mere child. Thor turned back to find his brother staring at him intently. His emerald eyes wide and expectant, sparkling in the candle-light like precious diamonds. However the diamonds seemed... liquefied. He mimicked his brother's gaze. It almost looked like he was−

"I'm sorry." Loki could speak with such tenderness when he allowed himself. He swallowed and inhaled; his breath quivered slightly. "I thank you," he concluded gently.

"Are you sure you will not join us?" Thor had to try once more, at least.

"No."

"But-"

"Thor, please." His eyes closed in an attempt to compose himself.

"But father-"

Loki plummeted upward from the stool in impulsive anger, clenching his fists, adopting a maniacal stance.

"I care not about father!"

His burst of rage tore the silence apart like a rabid animal. He spat the last the last word with such venom that droplets of saliva projected from Loki's pale, pink lips.

"Then do you not care of mother? Of me?"

Thor's voice wavered with emotion... and Loki noticed. For he responded with a gaze of such apology and guilt it would've broken the heart of a Frost Giant.

"Of course, brother." His voice so soft and sorrowful as he stared with dismay into the ground.

Both God's heads snapped simultaneously towards the doorway as a face peered cautiously behind the great, oak door:

"Apologies, sires but Odin wishes to speak with you Loki, at once. I think it's-"

The tentative voice of the quivering servant died away as Loki threw him a murderous glare. His face then twisted into a foreboding sneer:

"Am I in trouble?"

"Sire, I must insist you accompany me. Your father requests-"

"Oh, well, if "All-father Odin's" tooting his trumpet, we mustn't dilly-dally, must we?" From an inexperienced ear, Loki's voice would seem genuine but Thor could detect the bitter taste of sarcasm bubbling below the surface.

The obsequious servant nodded frantically - cowering slightly in Loki's presence - before shuffling awkwardly from the room.

"Sycophant." Loki hissed sotto voce into the servant's retreating back.  
He appeared to smile - but what really was more of a leer - as he bounced playfully out of his room. Thor merely sighed, eyed the now- abandoned harp for one last time, turned on his heel and left the room.


	2. The Strike of Lightening

"I grow tired of your insolence, Loki!" Odin thundered; his single, piercing eye boring into that of his son. Loki merely stared impassively into the glossy sheen of the Throne Room tiles; constantly vague in expression.

Thor stood obediently - and rather awkwardly - to his brother's immediate right. He eyed Loki with an air of slight suspicion; Loki always proved unpredictable when confronted. He hoped the young prince would adopt his state of elegant composure, rather than submit to his internal rage.

Obviously he'd never admit such a thing... but his little brother really did frighten him, sometimes.

"I fail to see how the desire of solitude is an act of insolence, father." Loki's voice was as smooth as the serpent's slither; of course - remaining true to the nature of the snake - the air of cunning accompanied it.

"Cease your childish, jibes!" The All-Father snapped, impatiently. Odin's haste to interject informed Loki that he had proven victorious, against his father, regarding that particular verbal battle. Thor could spy the most minute curl of the young God's lips.

"You have caused your mother and I a great deal of concern; exiling yourself from your own family. Pray tell, my son, what was so vastly important for you to do such thing?" Odin attempted to appear concerned - almost sympathetic - but the mind of Loki Odinson was all too accustomed to the crafts of a liar. How dare Odin resort to patronising him with parental spiels; humouring him like a mere child.

The child he would always see in him. Nothing more than that.

Loki clenched his delicate fists inconspicuously; however Thor spied the underlying gleam of his knuckles protrude from the near-transparent skin.

However, Loki's response - thankfully - contrasted greatly with his stance. Forever in a state of Zen, he replied, "I was playing my harp, father."

"You were what?"

Loki dared to raise his voice but a fraction, "I was merely playing the harp, father. I wished to..." He swallowed, awkwardly, before continuing, "...practice. I wished to perfect it, father."

"And what good would have come of that?" Odin responded, sceptically. His solitary eye fixed on the falling locks of ebony which framed his son's bowed head.

Thor noticed a malicious smirk, just concealed beneath the manic mass of charcoal hair. He felt a small pool of dread form in the pit of his stomach.

This wasn't going to end well.

Loki lifted his head slowly, calm gaze fixated on the wrath of his father. His eyes of jade steady and unblinking. Could a smile be playing on his lips?

His speech proved impeccably articulate; voice smooth and cool as a sheet of Jotun ice. His eyes were steady, stance formed with an air of pride and his words like the knives that slit the throat in the silent dead of night:

"What good? Well, a great deal of good, father; not of which you'd comprehend, of course. You see, I have discovered a method of "cathartic release"; one of elegant sophistication. I find it much more rewarding than the typical form of Asgardian emotional relief; which mainly consists of brutally slaying creatures of a different race or "the glory of battle". And - as you may ask - what good comes of that? Well, a wondrous contrast occurs, father. Whilst the burst of suppressed rage is but temporarily diminished via animalistic bloodshed, such murderous actions simultaneously lead to the gluttonous inflation of Asgardian-man's insufferable ego. Oh, what a sweet little cesspool of psychological benefit, yes?"

The soft hiss of his final jibe seeped into the silence, leaving both Odin and Thor in a mild state of shock. The serpent had spoken and he was very pleased with himself, indeed.  
Thor could feel the swelling aura of contempt omitted by his brother. Thor's brow furrowed as that horrid feeling of fear swept over his mind.

But fear of what?

Was it the fear of the consequences - enforced by Odin - for his brother's disrespect for his own people? Was it the fear of the dark matter that dwelled inside his little brother: the lies, the deceit, and the malicious sorcery? Or was it the fear of distance; the tether of brotherly compassion between he and Loki - that once seemed indestructible - twisting and fraying under times cruellest spell?

A pang of pain collided with his heart as he realised the third question was - in fact - the answer to his fear.

The feeling was not unfamiliar to him - neither was the current situation - however it always succeeded in lamenting his heavy heart just as much as it did before.

Why did it always end this way?

Loki would defy the authority of their father, their father would then provoke his youngest son and Loki's compulsive need to prove his superiority would claim him. This left Loki back where he started: isolated, cynical and avoided by his own father.

(Not before Odin severely punished Loki, for his actions, of course.)

Thor could see it: his father visibly tensing when in the company of Loki. Even when the younger God behaved pleasantly, there was always an air of unease within the atmosphere; a lack of trust, which proved a constant barrier between father and son.

It truly saddened Thor to see; why couldn't they just be a family, for once? However - now - he knew that dream was foolish; a hopeless ideal.

Ha. He was beginning to sound like, Loki.

Loki - forever the cynic - had most likely known the House of Odin had cracks in the walls from the very beginning; that there was no such thing as a happy family.

His thoughts were interrupted by his father's terrifying outburst:

"How dare you? You dare to spew such words of poison toward your own people; yet, still you feel entitled to their respect? How do you expect to rule them? How can I expect you to rule them?"

That had touched a nerve... or - rather - impaled it; Loki's head snapped upward, his eyes blazing with sudden desperation.

However, Odin continued: "Your contempt sickens me! I am ashamed to name you my son!"

He began to descend the great, stone stairs; his towering wrath becoming ever-more-apparent, as drew ever-closer to Loki:

"You selfish, selfish child!"

And with that, he struck Loki hard across the face.

When the reverberation of the violent collision - of a callous hand with a delicate face - ceased to sound an excruciating silence took its place.

Thor's stare bored into the ground, unable to risk eye contact with either his brother or father. However, as the leaden silence stretched onward, Thor looked up tentatively; curious to see their expressions.

Odin remained statuesque, the hand which forced the strike of lightening still levitated in the air in a freeze-frame; his single eye saturated with guilt as he stared into the ground - with unadulterated shame - as Thor had done before him.

Odin had not wanted to hit his son. He loved Loki. He just hated of what he was capable of.

Thor then turned to Loki.

Loki also remained in a statuesque stance; his skeletal face turned to the side - hair swept over his angular cheekbones - as it was the moment he was struck. Fists clenched - as they were before - and eyes ablaze, he fought back hot tears - boiled by embarrassment and frustration - with every inch of his angered being.

Thor couldn't help but flinch as Loki broke the silence:

"You claim they are my own people, yet they are not of my kind..." His voice tender and solemn as his gaze finally dared to meet that of his father, "...that is not a jibe of contempt but merely an acceptance of what I truly am..." He gave a slight smile, but it became more of a wince, as it failed to combat the pain, "...as cold as ice."

Thor eyed him with confusion. What did Loki mean? How Thor hated his brother's dialect of riddles and mysteries; it made it all-the-more difficult for one brother to understand the other. It proved another contribution to the growing distance between them.

Thor turned to his father, in hope of an explanation or reassurance that Loki's words didn't really mean anything.

Did they?

Odin remained silent but focused his gaze upon his youngest son. Thor looked into that solitary eye of grey and saw the pain of realisation that resided there. The All-Father then bowed his head - which appeared almost as a nod of acceptance - towards his son's words. He then raised his palm to grant his sons permission to leave him; face defeated and tired, in expression.

Thor glared at his brother, pleading for an answer. Loki said nothing. Tears still threatening to cascade down his pale and grim façade, he turned on his heel and stormed from the room, trying to stifle his frantic breathes which were nearing hyperventilation.

Thor watched - gaping, slightly - in silence, as his brother's scrawny form retreated through the ornate doors of the Throne Room.

An extensive silence of contemplation fluttered by; only the Gods knew for how long. Until:

"He does play wonderfully, father."

The blonde looked to his father - apologetically - one last time... and began to approach those same doors in pursuit of his brother.

Of course he did; he had to. Loki was his brother and a man cannot let his brother walk alone. A brother must always follow, no matter where the other may tread.

And so - for the second time that evening - Thor tread the familiar turf towards that ornate, wooden door.


	3. The Blood of Brothers

The corridors were infected with an eerie silence; however Thor decided to disregard the discomfort it caused. He had other things on his mind. He walked purposefully - for the second time that evening - toward that dreaded destination. Unfortunately, the apprehension he'd felt previously had intensified a significant amount.

To be honest, he felt afraid.

Not of Loki; at least, not right now. No, he feared what he would find... behind that ornate, wooden door.

There were times - such awful times - when Thor thought his brother possessed some form of catatonic schizophrenia; sometimes the nature of Loki would be impassive, statuesque and numb to any form of feeling but there were other times - darker times - of which Loki would experience emotion... to a terrifying degree. The chameleon would suddenly show his colours: happiness would become manic delirium, anger a feral creature and sadness— Well, sadness was the worst: the hideous collage of tears, sweat and blood.

For Loki, sadness was the abyss: his façade would not break but shatter, he would not dry his tears but would spill his own blood, and he would not love but live within loathing.

He always faced his sadness alone... but not this night.

Despite his fears, Thor blatantly refused to simply accept his brother's distance. He would not leave him alone; he was his brother, after all.

Wasn't he?

Thor battled - to no avail - to eliminate those words the younger prince had uttered to their father in the Throne Room. Thor felt a small pang of nausea morph into a cancerous doubt as he pondered those words:

"...as cold as ice."

'What does it mean?' He pondered, brutally convincing himself he was oblivious to what his brother's words implied. He ignored the foreboding sensation of epiphany twisting in his gut; he blinked rapidly in a feeble attempt to crush those incessant thoughts of realisation; they must be eliminated, like all opposing foes of the God of Thunder. He pushed all possible answers to the sordid riddle aside; willing himself not to believe. That didn't change the fact he knew.

"To know and to believe are two very different matters, brother."

Thor visibly winced as his brother's words of wisdom - from an adolescent memory - danced amongst the troubles of his mind. Then he smiled; Loki had always been bright and insightful beyond his years. He could even tell the All-Father a thing or two... Well, he'd certainly tried. Thor couldn't help but smirk, at the thought.

It made sense to him now; the proverb 'clicked' inside his mind with a sense of satisfaction; he knew his 'brother' may not be so by blood... but he would always believe it.

Suddenly, a malicious shiver of dread crept across his broad shoulders; the door was in sight.

However - instead of engaging in a moment's hesitation - the God of Thunder barged into the chambers of his brother with impulsive determination; lost in his slightly deluded self-righteousness. He would find his brother, he would help his brother, he would reassure him - with undying conviction - that everything will be al—

Thor's attempt to console quickly became a verbal corpse; his jaw clenched as his stance remained rigid and frozen. He immediately regretted his rash entrance... for he was not prepared for what lay before him; a horrific tableau.

That harp was Loki's pride and joy. A pride and joy that was now utterly destroyed.

Jagged shards of opulent gold scarred the ground, forming a hideous collage of passionate rage; the carnage illustrating the chaotic tendency of a broken heart. The slithers of silver strings surrounded a hunched figure, a mere skeletal silhouette secluded in the dim light of dusk.

It was Loki.

Again, he did not acknowledge his brother's presence but - sadly - undue to musical serenity; on the contrary, he was devastated.

He knelt amidst the debris, unable to lay his gaze upon his crime of anguish; his slender fingers compressing into the depths of his ebony tresses, clutching it in clumps with untameable desperation. His withered form shuddered relentlessly as he attempted to compose his heaving breathes - dangerously erratic - which were occasionally punctuated by an agonised sob. He mumbled a sadistic curse - to but himself - despising himself for exposing the bottled poison of infectious emotions. He smothered his face within his scrawny arms, consumed by shame, refusing to omit any further sounds of sorrow.

"Loki—" Thor attempted in vain; his voice hoarse with horror.

Suddenly, Loki's lanky arms flopped to his slender sides in utter defeat; crescent indentations - caused by horrifyingly enraged fingernails - oozed trickles of scarlet across the midst of his glistening palms. Yet more blood tattooed his alabaster arms; the gory liquid cascading, forming crimson veins of anguish.

He dared to survey the collateral damaged he so, violently enveloped himself within; eyes heavily embroidered with an abundance of scarlet threads. They ached with sorrow. He blinked rapidly in a feeble attempt to combat those cursed tears that threatened an escape. The hopeless oblivion which swirled within those hollowed eyes was accentuated all-the-more by the sickly, dark rings surrounding them; the ominous, grey shades of exhaustion grazed his cheekbones and - simultaneously - highlighted his malnourished countenance.

"Brother, I—" Thor tried - with all his brutish might - once more. But the words fettered away to nothing. The traumatic scene had stunned him.

Loki's head snapped towards the door, his eyes - swimming with devastation and rage - penetrated his brother with an almost feral glare.

Thor could only stare into the silence, could only watch this broken shadow, he called 'brother'. A callous pain twisted inside Thor's chest as he watched Loki's bloodied hands stretch outward; slender fingers quivering and shuddering as they seemed to claw the air, scratching amongst the stillness. Thor thought he looked like he was falling...

...maybe he was.

Loki's spattered hands curled into livid fists, however his facial expression depicted no-such rage; his angular features contorting into the very definition of enervated.

"Why, brother?"

His words were dangerously close to an ominous growl; a growl interlaced with a heavy breath of exhaustion. The eyes of the golden God suddenly darted towards his brother, trapped within undivided attention.

"Why?" He repeated, his voice softer - more fatigued - as he allowed the depths of his weariness to become audible.

A rare event, indeed.

Thor was unsure of how to reply - still apparently stunned - therefore Loki extended his ultimate question, his exhaustion all-the-more acknowledgeable:

"Why does something as pure as truth cause such infernal suffering?"

Thor couldn't answer that. Could anyone really justify that question with a response? Thankfully for Thor, the enquiry was rhetorical therefore a reply wasn't necessary.

Loki merely gazed into the silent abyss as he seemed to delve into his menagerie of inner demons: pained pondering, quizzical questions, dastardly deceits and hellish hatred, all boiling beneath the surface of snow-white skin of such a flawless façade... but all things break, in the end.

Loki sighed in defeat, closing his eyes as a form surrender. He appeared lost in his fluttering thoughts; the amount of time Loki spent in his own head genuinely concerned his elder brother. There were times - all-too-numerous - of which Thor would rather remain ignorant of what occupied the mind of his brother.

A mind a-kin to Pandora's Box.

Loki then opened his eyes and his pale, pink lips dared to curl into a saddened smile, "...and they wonder why I tell my tales with such great ease." He chuckled... but then such aloofness abruptly halted as he cast his gaze open the jagged fragments of his murdered passion. His lugubrious gaze vanished when Thor found his voice:

"Is it not better to endure the truth amidst compassion, rather than to tell falsehoods within solitude, Loki?"

Loki tilted his head slightly, analysing the question. If he wasn't so emotionally fragile, he would've congratulated his brother for being so, uncharacteristically astute.

However, Thor watched the delicate brow of his little brother furrow with hurt as if the answer to the question physically pained him to know:

"Solitude occurs by default, brother..." - he all-but-spat into the sea of shards as he submitted himself to the gaze of his elder brother, eyes glistening like lost spirits - "...when there is no compassion, for company."

Thor stood aghast as his brother's words left him trapped in horror; had Loki truly convinced himself he was unloved or unworthy? Why? Thor could not bear it; the thought of his dearest brother being belittled... and becoming so bitter as a result.

Loki was changing - morphing into a man Thor barely recognised - and it terrified him to the point of tears.

Speaking of which...

Thor snapped from his reverie as his attention was drawn to a curious, sniffling sound; tender breaths omitted relentlessly, as if the unloading of burdens that had been carried for far to long.

'All things break in the end.'

The words snaked amidst Thor's darkened thoughts as he watched the product a nightmare: Loki - bitter, bloodied and broken - sobbing as though his heart would break...

...maybe, it had.

Loki's skeletal form racked with every heaving sob - the jolts of his abdomen mimicking those of one undergoing repeated punches to the gut - his thin shoulders quaked in a feverish manner as he surrendered his spirit to his emotions; as he... gave up.

Thor could not bear to merely stand by and watch any longer. In moments, he was by his brother's side, wrapping his broad arms of brutish strength around the quivering skeleton; cocooning the still-crying Loki as the God of Thunder rocked his thin frame back and forth like a babe in a cradle.

"Please, don't cry, brother."

The words quiet and motherly as they slipped gently into Loki's ear. He lifted a shaking hand, to wipe his bleary eyes in an air of defiance. Bearing a weakened smile, he mumbled:

"A p-prince should..." - he sniffled, again - "...not w-weep."

"But a brother always may." Thor smiled, tenderly. He ruffled Loki's dishevelled mass of hair, just as he did when they were younger princes.

Loki hummed softly in appreciation, allowing his smile to grow broader. Then, suddenly, his expression dropped to something quite serious. He turned to face Thor, gazing directly into those brilliant blue eyes. He spoke with what could only be described as complete sincerity:

"Forgive me, brother."

He spoke affectionately; words so tender and melodic, akin to the manner of which he played his harp:

"Forgive me for what has come to pass and for what has yet to happen."

Thor returned an expression of confusion, unsure as to what his brother referred. Loki merely smiled - tears still sparkling in his eyes - and brought his delicate hands to Thor's face, boring his gaze into that of his brother to accentuate his honesty:

"I am truly sorry."

He paused - to give the words time to percolate - then patted his brother playfully on the cheek. He then shifted, dropped his hands and returned his gaze to the floor, returning to the dark pit of his reveries. 'Gone all too soon', Thor pondered, solemnly.

"Now, if it is not of any inconvenience to you, brother, I would prefer to spend some time alone, now."

Thor sighed in reluctant understanding and rose to leave his brother be. However, Loki continued, voice wavering with emotion:

"However, your company has been very much appreciated. I can assure you of that."

Thor smiled with gratitude - bowing slightly - before replying:

"It was not company, brother but compassion.

Loki closed his eyes, his face a-glow in the amber light of evening, a sense of peace caressed his elven features; he sighed blissfully as if he'd been waiting to hear the utter of those precious words for thrice millennia. His eyes of jade opened to reveal a blazing supernovas composed only of joy. He laughed... and it was beautiful, for it was pure.

A rare event, indeed.

And, so, the brother's then headed their separate ways but, of course, were never, truly apart; for a brother must always follow, no matter where the other may tread.

Brothers of yin and yang that - all along - were Gemini.

Change has intertwined amongst siblings and wove its malice curses; an expected pain but pain, all the same. However, a wondrous contrast occurred: the God of Thunder knew Loki was not his brother but believed so and the God of Lies knew he was loved by Thor... but had still yet to believe it.

Perhaps that day shall come - a brother can only hope - and, on such a joyous day, sweet music shall again be heard amongst the halls of the House of Odin.


	4. Epilogue: The Memory

"Now, no peeking, Loki; you promised."

Frigga's voice was stern but uttered no severity as her radiant smile gleamed akin to the sunrise which awoke the kingdom of Asgard.

Her slender hands curtained over the prying eyes of her youngest son; yes, Loki had promised not to peek but - most likely - with his little fingers crossed. She guided his fawn-like steps as he staggered aimlessly in his temporary blindness.

Loki omitted an impish giggle, his gleeful laughter dancing amongst the golden halls of home. Curiosity sizzled relentlessly within his agile mind; what was this 'surprise' his mother spoke of?

He busied his thoughts with countless possibilities as to what that confounded 'surprise' might be: a pet, a new book or - hopefully, not - new training armour. The child was so enraptured within his untameable imagination that he lost his clumsy footing and tripped - quite inelegantly - over his own boot.

Thankfully, Frigga's swift instinct caught him before he collided with the stone tiles; her attentive hands darted to his protruding ribs to assist regaining his balance. She breathed a sigh of relief as her son burst into another fit of infectious giggles:

"I'm closing my eyes! I promise, mother! I promise!"

He clenched his eyes shut indignantly, deep-set creases teasing with his temples; he punctuated his expression with an exaggerated pout of his soft, plump lips. Frigga chuckled at his animated countenance and resumed guiding him towards the unknown.

"I almost fell, mother!" The young prince proclaimed with an air of outrage. Frigga gave another tender laugh; her son's melodramatic tendencies never failed to amuse her.

"Yes, that's right, dear." She, playfully, mimicked a tone of shock as she guided Loki ever-nearer to the ornate, wooden door.

"It's an... unquestionably fortunate circumstance that you caught me, mother!"

Frigga shook her head in disbelief; she had not a clue how her son - a child so young - acquired such sophisticated vocabulary. Loki's intellect - which was far beyond his years - shocked and - on occasions - even frightened her to realise.

"I'll always be here to catch you when you fall, my darling."

Her words were so tender and soft, yet were stated with cemented sincerity; her face swelled with love as she gazed upon the Idun's apple of her hazel eyes.

Loki was her pride and joy.

She was well-aware of Loki's mischievous nature and cunning antics - as we're were the majority of the Æsir - but she willed herself to remain tolerate of him, to keep faith within his overwhelming potential.

He was so, ridiculously talented... and it pained her to see it.

Unfortunately, his expertise were considered unorthodox and unnatural within their realm; his passion for sorcery was an inherent taboo within Asgardian society. On countless occasions, she would catch such horrid whispers - whilst forced to bite her clever tongue - which depicted Loki as an "argr", mocking his effeminacy and elegance. Society would collectively sneer and predict - with such, insufferable arrogance - how Loki would grow up to disappoint Asgard, how he'd never be a worthy king. Of course, her veil of impassiveness - never bitter or biased - would not ever falter... but her blood would boil beneath the surface in secrecy.

She loved him unconditionally, no matter what his traits, talents or heritage.

She knew he wasn't her son by blood... but she would always believe it.

"Are we there yet, mother?"

Frigga leapt from the depths of her reveries as Loki's patience audibly withered. Frigga smirked and decided she would - finally - put him out of his misery: Loki detested waiting.

"Yes, sweetheart." She chimed as she shuffled his scrawny form through the arched doorway. "Now, open your eyes."

Loki opened his eyes: they analysed the scene, deducted its content, then - filling with realisation - they widened and shone, swirling with delight and awe.

That 'confounded surprise' exceeded any of his initial expectations and wildest dreams; it was beautiful.

Loki gasped in wonder as he gaped at the opulent swirls of gold, twisting to form elegant curves and - in the midst of the grandiose - countless minute slithers of silver stings shone in the glorious light of morn.

It was love at first sight.

Loki extended a delicate hand, fingers twitching toward the strings with tentative curiosity. He plucked a few careless notes and his heart fluttered in response to their angelic purity, the peace they brought him. It was another form of magic, the music an entity of its own. He was in awe of it.

Frigga watched the scene play like the harp itself; the beauty of its innocence brought a bright, fresh smile to her gentle countenance. She felt a small 'clutching' sensation in her chest, when she spied the tears of joy sparkling to life in those large eyes of jade. She'd never seen him so happy.

Suddenly, he flung his scrawny form toward her, flinging his lanky arms around her slender waist as he enveloped her in a grateful embrace. Frigga sleeked his silken tresses of black as his deft fingers clung to the turquoise chiffon of her dress; it was as if he'd never let go.

"Thank you, mother. It is the epitome of beauty."

He lifted his head and met her gaze, his expression one of unadulterated adoration; she was truly his guardian angel. He was certain she'd remain so, for eternity... even when Valhalla claimed her, at last.

"It is wonderful." He breathed with content and buried his head into the embrace once more, nuzzling her in a manner a-kin to a kitten.

"Well..." Frigga began, voice beginning to waver as tears of joy collected in her star-like eyes, "...it'll keep you out of mischief..." - she smirked maliciously - "...for a while, at least."

Loki yelped as her deft fingers darted like vipers to his abdomen. They busied themselves spindling and spidering mercilessly as Loki writhed and squirmed; he was hopelessly ticklish.

"No, no, mother! Hahahahaha! Please! St— Hehehe! Stop!"

He protested in vain - and failed to portray any severity through his words - when his cries were so, heavily interpreted with such blossoms of laughter.

It was a tableau composed by the angels; the golden light of morn streaming through the kingdom of gold, signalling a sunrise of new hope and possibility and sweet music filled the air... but not that formulated by a harp or any instrument for that matter.

No, this was the song of a glorious, childhood memory; laughter of such purity and innocence, spreading sweet joy - like ancient sorcery - as each darling giggle echoed amongst the halls of the House of Odin.


End file.
